A Golden Thread

By Rhys Archer

This is a story of greed.

A young lawyer in a public housing authority tries to solve a mystery. A major public works project is underway. In the course of his usual attention to task the awarding of contracts, the dealing with various complaints he discovers an anomaly. It appears a leak has developed, and funds otherwise unaccounted for are slipping away.

As he explores the issue further, however tentative, groping, uncertain he finds that more and more obstacles have subtly been placed in his way. The last of these, as he persists, are not so subtle the implication that he is somehow responsible for the disappearance of the funds and the attempt to kill him. He has, in short, become the object of his own investigation or some others.

Injured and alienated, he must find the way with the help of a few unlikely allies to exonerate himself and place blame where it belongs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483621661

Rhys Archer

The author lives on the Sonoma coast about one hundred miles north of San Francisco. He has written six other books, including the tetralogy, Echoes and Silences. A Golden Thread is the second volume in a projected series entitled The Four Pillars; the first volume in that series, An Open Texture, was published in 2006.

Book preview

I

 1

The rain fell, hard and heavy, in long, straight lines, like the strands of a beaded curtain.

David Agnew stood at the window of his office. He scarcely noticed the rain, the swollen Christmas lights, the thick encompassing evening. His thoughts distracted him, jostling for his attention, fading in his fatigue, his face a sallow mask streaked with shadows: where the money had gone or for what, where he would grab a bite to eat or whether even to bother, what he would do at home, no longer the refuge, the release. He yawned suddenly and shook his head. His gray suit hung more loosely on him now. He rarely cooked these days, really did no more than chop the makings of a salad, and this was not the season for it, wet and cold, the wettest in a hundred years, they said. Still, no one denied they needed the rain; and in his idle moments, when a friend called, exuberant, he counted the accumulation of snow in the mountains, inches, then feet, another distraction, counting the days. He thought later he would practice his chords but recanted instantly, knowing the neighbors, the diminutive Chinese couple on one side and the diminutive Jewish couple on the other, both older, one obsequious but fierce, shaking heads in disapproval, the other aggressive, pounding on the door, leaving messages on his answering machine—David, you’re too loud—would object. He must make time somehow, some way. It was after eight o’clock. The lights, white, amber, red, green, merged and melded, spread out as wide frayed carpets on the wet streets. He loved this town and wondered whether he would ever be happy here again. That familiar, melancholy challenge was more than enough to move him. He stepped away from the window, turned, and began to collect his papers and personal effects and slide them into his black leather briefcase, far too expensive, when he purchased it upon his graduation from law school over four years before but, he had persuaded himself, fit to last a lifetime. With caution, he disconnected the computer, slightly jolted, as always, by the familiar four note fanfare as it shut down, then slid the slender machine into its black carrying case. You never knew. He might decide he needed it. He might find himself beset by inspiration, a sudden insight into the mystery, the missing elements. And in truth, he had little else to do. It was a way to beguile the hours till he could lie down without embarrassment and pretend to sleep, further wearying his mind to suppress his memories. Another month somehow had passed. Donning raincoat and hat, juggling the cases, grasping the umbrella, which hung on the heavy brass hook along with two coat hangers, he turned off the light in his office, the cleaning crew having passed through an hour earlier, and closed the door.

Two unexpected trials had shaken him that day, setting him back, exciting his native caution. The first, despite his consternation, had proved ephemeral. Typing fast, wanting to complete his report, he had hit a key in error and watched in horror as the document simply vanished, leaving the familiar blue screen, the columns of icons, the photograph of a lovely young woman, Asian, laughing. He had had no idea which key he had hit but rapidly, forcefully tried all the intuitive ones in the desperate attempt to recover it: Backspace, Enter, Shift, Control, Alt, all to no avail. In desperation, he had turned to the IT department and waited, pacing, softly cursing, till one of the technicians showed up. He was a young man, slender, with floppy brown hair, in faded jeans and a plaid shirt that seemed never to be tucked in. His name was Jimmy Dobbs, and he listened patiently while David tried to explain what had happened in terms increasingly incoherent due to haste and desperation.

No problem, Jimmy said, sliding into the vacated seat before the blue screen. Happens all the time. It’s why I have a job.

Fish the fools out of the toilet, David said, emphasizing the contempt he directed at himself.

Your lips, he said, laughing, God’s ears, but, yeah, something like that.

He worked, slouched well back in David’s chair, his arms fully extended, humming gently to himself. His fingers danced effortlessly over the keyboard. His right hand shifted occasionally to the mouse. And yet his ministrations seemed endless. David, leaning forward, blotted his upper lip with the cuff of his blue oxford-cloth shirt, rubbed his palms together, murmured to himself a series of imprecations: Come on, come on. And then, just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the document reappeared in full.

That it? Jimmy asked, continuing to stare straight ahead.

Yes! David exclaimed, looking over his shoulder, raising his arms in triumph, then suddenly grabbing the young man’s head and kissing the crown.

Hey, hey, hey, he warned, drawing back, only chicks are permitted that when I find their files.

But you don’t understand. You’ve just saved me hours of work. Maybe days. Maybe forever.

Man, forever sucks.

Wait till you see it from my side.

Well, you’re back in business now, but I suggest you start backing up your files. Much as I like paying you a visit, it’s a lot easier than calling me. Got one of these? He held up a small plastic—oblong white and bubble gum pink—between the tips of thumb and forefinger then extended it.

What is it? David asked, staring at it nestled in the palm of his hand.

It’s a memory stick.

Never heard of one.

Insert it in the port, tap your fill, just like reaching into the honey pot.

I have to admit, it’s been awhile since I’ve done that.

What happened to that Chinese chick you used to bring to office parties?

We broke up.

Hey, man, I’m sorry, Jimmy said, his voice dropping, reaching hesitantly for the small device as if wary of sudden movements, covering his embarrassment.

Works out that way sometimes, I guess.

But here, he recommenced eagerly, further distancing himself from embarrassment, I’ll show you. You insert it here. Again his fingers flickered over the keys, lambent as a gentle blue flame. Again he pushed around the mouse. Again he sorted through various screens. There, he said at last.

There, what?

There, all your documents are saved to the memory stick. Deftly he unplugged the device, deftly he pitched it to David, who clumsily tried to catch it, watching it flit from one hand to the other like a maddened moth till at last it settled in one palm. All backed up.

Again just like the toilet I had fallen into, David said.

We call it security.

What we’re all looking for, David murmured, continuing to inspect the small device, head down.

What, indeed. Call me if you need my help. And—

Like when I need to get the genii out of the bottle?

Something like that, yes, and—

So rubbing it won’t work?

No, and no more kissing unless you’re a chick.

No one had resolved the second as easily. It was true that, at first glance, the matter appeared to be insignificant, scarcely a puff of smoke, certainly not a fire. In a project so vast, encompassing so many moving parts, so many pieces of paper, so many individuals, some such occurrences were expected. You might not like it, especially if you were of his mildly fastidious temperament, the files temporarily mislaid, the questions that were not answered promptly, but you learned to live with the inconvenience or did yourself and others a favor and found another job, one that managed to eliminate the human factor. This one, relayed by a clerk in the accounting office, concerned a purchase order that had been dated just slightly after the formal end of its contract. No doubt that meant nothing. The project had run long. They all knew that. And they faced constantly the requirement, again, of all those moving parts, the undercurrent of political opposition years after decisions had been made, the changes of mind on even small details, yes, even the weather, the weeks of rain, the softening hillsides, in consequence, the demand for a diversion of funds for the necessary repairs to roads and byways. You could not account years in advance for every contingency. A certain give, a little wiggle room, a simple tolerance for the vagaries was required. And yet, rather than grant the approval and move on, he had followed up. The recipient of those funds was a subcontractor far down the cascade: ARG0NET Consulting. Their proposal, which he quickly found, along with the contract, duly signed, made the usual affirmations with great confidence: get their arms around the problem quickly, put a stake in the ground, expose the pain points, affirm the value proposition: nothing he had not seen and heard before, the trill of catchphrase and cliché, nothing worth the hundreds of thousands the contract called for. It assured sensitivity to the concerns of the community. It offered guarantees of compliance with all federal guidelines. It specified methods to be employed, polls, interviews, statistical analyses employing the latest multivariate techniques. It promised a full report and set of recommendations. It was a malicious joke. He could not remember seeing such a document, but then so many passed before his eyes, the pieces of paper were so numerous, the clamor of voices was so loud that he could not be sure. Nor would he necessarily have been expected to, he tried to remind himself. Dozens of firms, large and small, had managed to wriggle under the tent, nose first. Most provided services he was scarcely competent to judge, the viscosity of cement, for example, and for verification, he turned readily to the manager or contractor directly involved. But when he had done so this time, earlier that day, calling, probing, he had encountered a strange, reluctant silence. Those who had initiated and passed along the request for payment could not remember it, tho two or three assured him they would look around and get back to him, yes or no. And yet now, after eight o’clock, he still had heard nothing. That might mean nothing in itself. Everyone complained of overwork. No one needed more to do, the tracking down of one of those elusive files. And the Christmas season was on them, after all, like a ravenous beast exacting tribute. And in any case, the payment, the last installment called for in the contract, had been stopped. It was, moreover, he tried to reassure himself, crossing fingers, like those before it, trivial in comparison to the other vast expenditures associated with the project. But he could not suppress the emerging sense of embarrassment he felt, arising from his possible failure to perform his duties fully, perhaps in the distraction, the fatigue, the sense of dislocation that had overtaken him in the last few months. And out of that embarrassment, he began slowly to extract a sense of outrage, black, inchoate but showing signs of life. He needed to remain calm, collected, dispassionate. He could not judge the case until all the facts were in. He knew that, always had, always would. And yet at that moment, the conclusion that pressed upon him, causing him to slam a fist into the facing palm, was that someone had got something he had not earned and did not deserve and that somehow, unwittingly, he himself had allowed and possibly abetted it.

At that moment, some four miles away, but on a direct line of sight from his office window, two men stared through the windshield of their car. He was not the object of their surveillance. They could not have seen him at that distance, knew nothing of him, cared nothing for him. The motor ran, letting out a telltale plume of exhaust. It revealed their presence, out of place; but they needed the heat, the fan, the defroster to keep the windows from clouding over. Every minute or so, the one in the passenger’s seat reached over and set the windshield wipers in motion, one synchronized sweep, back and forth. But as soon as the action stopped, the windows blurred again with the steady streams of rain. What I love about you, man, the driver said, his voice deep, dense, slow moving, like the flow of a turbid stream, you never learn. You’re just like a fucking cat.

I like cats, the other replied, stretching his neck, stifling a yawn.

Fucking filthy beasts. Playing with their turds like soccer balls, leaving hair balls in your way like land mines.

Mindy wants to get one. Maybe two. Keep each other company.

Cats don’t need company. They’re all they need. Them and their shadow.

Still, it beats the alternative if it shuts her up.

She still on that, is she?

Time to time, gets that little baby tone in her voice, mewling that the clock is ticking. Then when nothing comes of it, she falls into a sullen silence. Does her duty but without enthusiasm, you know what I mean?

God, I hate it when they get like that. Like eating leftovers straight from the refrigerator. Makes you wonder if it’s even worth it.

You tell that to the little head. It stops popping up, I’ll stop doing what it says. Till then, I do my duty, too.

What’s that they say: God gave us two heads but only blood enough for one at once?

That’s what they say.

They lapsed again into silence. The sound of the rain on the roof was not unpleasant, but numbing in its relentlessness. It ran in waves down the windshield. And still, from time to time, the passenger reached over and activated the wipers, creating an instant of clarity before the onset of confusion. Occasionally a car would pass slowly, picking its way through the tide, or a headless couched figure, stepping high, landing on its toes. Little else stood out. It blurred. It ran together: the street lamps, the glistening pavement, the parked cars, the shabby, surly houses clinging to the sodden hillside ascending to the left, descending to the right.

The driver mused presently, stifling a yawn; Man won’t like it we burn through a whole tank of gas and come away with nothing.

So what do you suggest, we go in there and shake them up?

Can’t. Told to wait, we wait. You know the rules.

I know.

I just think I got too old for this. Sitting on my ass, letting my imagination wander, jerking off to pass the time. Way too old for that. It robs you of your dignity, you resort to that, you know what I mean.

Could be worse: you could be sitting at a desk.

It has its compensations.

Really?

Regular hours, ready meals, rubbing up against the chicks, showing you their tits.

They say they dig a guy with a gun.

Some of them, at least.

As I said, it could be worse.

Again they fell silent. It was their habit, the measure of their service together under the yoke, stepping in unison, breathing out, breathing in. They had been at it a long time. They had begun to look alike but for the color of their skin, same height, same build, same moustache, big chests, thick arms from rounded shoulder to blunt fingertips. The rumor was they shared everything including girlfriends, changing partners in midstream, seeing who could keep it up the longest, who elicited the loudest moans, a little fraternal competition.

Your time to get the coffee, the driver said presently without preamble.

My time? the passenger rejoined, raising his deep voice, becoming plaintive for effect. First I’ve heard of it. Since when did we start taking turns?

Since we got civilized. That’s the hallmark of civility. You learn to share.

How is it that we share if I’m the one getting wet?

Maybe next time might be worse.

Next time? You going to write that down? We going to keep a log?

Then it’ll be on me, was the placid response.

Worse? Can’t get much worse than this. Believe the weatherman, at least.

Maybe there’ll be an earthquake. Another of those things—what do you call them? Those big waves?

Tsunami.

That’s it.

If there is, you think there’ll be a Starbucks open?

I know so, he said chuckling. Starbucks, man, they love the business. They go everywhere, do anything, just like the Marines.

They’re not here. Nothing’s here. Even God’s not here.

Starbucks is bigger than God.

What was that? the passenger exclaimed, reaching forward, activating the wiper blades.

What was what?

I thought I saw something, he responded, leaving the wiper blades on, cutting swaths through the flowing water. He leaned forward to peer through the window, straining against the uncertain light, scanning. There. His right hand shot up, the index finger extended, bumping against the windshield.

A shimmering enigma skipped smartly across the street some twenty yards away, tall, thin, more like the shadow projected by the headlights of a passing car than an entity, an embodied presence, a blue flame that flares suddenly from a nearly consumed log and then subsides, a tuft of spume caught suddenly on a gust of wind.

Got it, the driver confirmed, leaning forward himself, clutching the steering wheel.

The passenger began to open the door. But the driver’s right hand reached out, spread, pressed against his chest, pushing him back into the seat. Whoa there, partner, he admonished. We’re supposed to wait.

Wait? For what? I’m fucking tired of waiting. It’s time we started doing.

Man says wait, we wait, the driver said, turning off the windshield wipers. Man says chase, we chase. You know the rules.

Fuck the rules, he replied but settled into the seat, slumping, crossing his arms over the vast violated chest. Not what I signed on for. Playing patty cake with the mad bomber.

Why did you sign on? his partner asked, teasing, amused, glancing his way.

Fuck you, too, you, the rules, the man himself.

I’ll tell him you said so, the driver said, chuckling.

They were in a poorer quarter of town filled with desperate people, clinging to the edges. The houses were small, framed in crooked timber, set close together. During the days, men idled at the corners or sprawled on the stairs to the front doors. During the evenings, cars with darkened windows trawled the streets, and frequently those within exchanged gunfire with someone on the sidewalk or sitting on a front porch, and just less frequently someone would die, seldom the hunter or the hunted, usually a child, a grandmother, a promising athlete walking home from practice, a story that ran for days in the newspapers. The perpetrators were rarely identified or captured tho just as frequently a week later, another body would be found, a young man with his throat slit, his pants down around his knees, his penis severed. The sequence of events seemed to sustain itself, never running down, never giving out. Everyone you talked to had a story, an acquaintance, a friend, a loved one, maimed for life, gone for good. You had to wonder.

They had been watching one house now for three nights together. Suddenly, without warning, just as the driver, still chuckling, swung his gaze forward again, it erupted, creating eerie patterns in the flow of water down the windshield. Great billows of flame burst through the doors and windows; glass and fragments of wood spewed from the gaping wounds. A roar accompanied the blast, the bellow of some angry mythical beast, rising from the chest, ripe with fury, suppressing momentarily the relentless drumming of the rain on the roof. The facades of the houses on either side and across the street reflected the orange glow, seemed to cringe and quake before it. The car shook with the blast. Then almost immediately, lights appeared in the windows of those houses, a few faces, and one or two men stepped from their front doors, holding plastic bags over their heads like misshapen tents to ward off the rain.

By that moment, the two observers were striding abreast toward the scene. Neither felt the need to run. The destruction was immense. No one within could have survived it. Both were talking on their cell phones, one to the fire department to come and arrest the spread, the other to their superior officer to report the event and get further instructions. He paused instantly, snapped his fingers at his partner, who had continued forward, to get his attention, then, that accomplished, jerked his head back toward the car without taking the mobile telephone from his ear. His partner gave him a quizzical look. The caller stared back, swung his flattened palm a couple of times in front of his throat, then turned and started back toward the car, still listening. Settled again in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, avoiding his partner’s imploring, hands up, head tilted, face projecting forward, turned toward him, he said at last, Right. He closed the flap on the mobile telephone to disconnect the call. That was the only word he had spoken since giving his first report.

What the fuck is it?

We back down. We step back. It’s the locals’ show now.

The locals? The locals? The locals don’t know shit about this. He slapped his hand on the dashboard. I don’t believe it.

What the man said.

Man’s got his fucking head stuck up his fucking ass.

Nonetheless. Said he’ll handle it from here. Wants our report, neat and tidy, all the notes, all the, shall we say, the context.

He didn’t say that.

No, he didn’t. Man don’t know that word. I just gave it to him. But you get the drift.

I get the drift, the passenger said then banged his fist sharply down on the dashboard before him a second time.

Don’t hurt my car, the driver said, reaching forward to ignite the engine then, looking back, turned the steering wheel to pull away from the curb. Ahead of them, downhill, the first of the fire engines turned into the street, its siren wailing, its lights flashing. The driver, therefore, did a quick three-point turn to avoid it and headed back uphill and away.

Anna Ho saw none of this nor much beyond the patch of wet concrete pavement just before her feet. Her small head was bowed. The panels of severely cut black hair fell forward like blinders. She held a mobile telephone to the ear beneath one of them. In response to the other’s standard greeting, she effected a brittle brightness of tone: Hi. It’s me.

But the other’s voice deepened, dropped in register, turned cold: I thought I asked you never to call me again.

In that instant, the brightness vanished. I couldn’t, she stammered, couldn’t not. I had to. I couldn’t let it end like that.

The tone was clipped, definitive, out of patience: It has ended.

But how? She tried to keep the pleading out of her voice, to keep it at a level of civility, pausing to catch her breath. Why? What did I do? We were together for five years.

Don’t remind me. All the wasted motion. The increasing bitterness and misery.

Misery? she asked, stunned, then added quickly: We were happy. You told me so. The little notes, the cards without occasion.

The correction was blunt. I lied.

The tone was incredulous. Lied?

Another fairy tale, if you wish, once upon a time.

A tone of desperation entered her voice, despicable, craven, but undeniable. You can’t say that. You can’t deny what we meant to each other. We have the pictures. The good times. Our friends. They’ll tell you.

Them? They will? So you think I need them to tell me how I feel?

No. I didn’t mean that. I just meant that they can verify—

Verify? The interruption was cold, harsh, peremptory. Am I not able to determine that myself?

Then what do you feel? Anna asked, chastened.

Restless, was the sharp, insistent reply. I’ve felt restless for some time now. Restless, unfulfilled perhaps, not at peace. I had to find that. And now relief. At first a glimmer, now a glow. So yes, I’m moving on. Moving out, moving on, no backward glance. It’s the only way I knew to save myself.

Yourself? she asked, confused as if trying to stop the flow of things moving too fast. I don’t understand. You never said you were unhappy.

The laugh was curt, mirthless, pitiless. Why had I to say a thing?

Then I’ll help you now. I’ll change. I’ll do anything you ask if you just tell me what you want. We can start again.

The tone was sharper still, more definitive, categorical. No, we can’t.

You can always start again, Anna pleaded.

Sometimes you can’t.

Her voice rose, seeking higher ground, there instinctively to defend herself. But why? Why not? Tell me why.

The blow was merciless: I’m seeing someone else.

Already? The shock reduced her voice to a whisper. How? So soon?

The same brisk categorical tone resumed. Listen, Anna. This gets us nowhere. Let’s just say it goes way back and leave it there.

Goes way back? she asked numbly, nonplussed.

Yes, the peremptory, disembodied voice continued. She and I have been seeing each other—she deftly used the well-worn euphemism—for about a year now. I’ve been trying to work this through, the shock, the confusion, the uncertainty. And yes, the remembrance of the good times we spent together. And more lately I’ve been trying to work up the courage to tell you.

A year? Anna murmured.

The tone turned cruel, mocking, if unintentionally so. A fine detective you are. All this acting out right beneath your nose. You didn’t see a thing.

I didn’t know, Anna admitted slowly, stunned.

Thus emboldened, she continued: I don’t know how you could have missed it.

You never said, Anna mumbled, groping, grasping at any hope.

But now the voice continued: Did I have to? Couldn’t you tell? And if you couldn’t, doesn’t that say something in itself?

I was only hoping it would disappear, Anna pleaded, suddenly trying to stave off the tears. Go away. Somehow end if only I was patient.

But the challenge was relentless, pushing her back, reducing her further: Go away? Disappear? Vanish in a puff of smoke? Didn’t it tell you something that we never made love?

I thought we must be going through a phase.

The tone exploded into righteous wrath: A phase? A goddam year? A phase doesn’t last a year. Just how long were you prepared to wait?

For you I would wait forever, Anna admitted, broken, forever, never to be repaired.

Well, Anna, meet forever.

I can’t do this, she pleaded, quickly brushing the tears from her cheeks, embarrassed. You are everything to me. You are my life.

Oh, I think you’ll—

At that moment, a signal indicated another call was waiting. Benumbed, she murmured: I have another call. I—

So what else is new? The voice became a bitter laugh. First things first. Always was, always will be. So go ahead. And, Anna, I’m sorry, but don’t call back. This is stalking. If you do, I’ll call the police.

I am the police, Anna murmured.

But already the line had been disconnected. She took the mobile telephone away from her ear and stared at it briefly as if it were defective, then restored it to its proper place. Against the grating sound, she murmured: Please. Michelle. I’ll do anything you want.

The insistent beep called her back, an eternity in a moment. She paused, again looked at the instrument with surprise, then pressed the button marked with an irregular green circle. Yes, she said quietly.

Anna Ho was easily overlooked. She barely reached the department’s standards for height and weight. Her manner was reserved, cautious, circumspect. Before joining the force, she had never touched a handgun. But other than a fierce devotion to the cause, she offered three powerful attractions at a time, a decade earlier, of begrudging outreach to the community. She had her heritage, including an almost-perfect command of Mandarin, her parents’ first language, the language they spoke at home. She had her sex when it was still unusual for women to approach the force in numbers. She had her orientation, not ostentatiously displayed but evident enough to practiced eyes. These attributes far outweighed any supposed deficiencies, which you could always remedy, of course, by discreetly pressing a thumb on the scale. She had gone to university on her own and against the wishes of her parents. Once there, she had further alienated them by majoring in criminal justice rather than the more practical arts like finance or accounting or the more distinguished sciences leading on to a career in medicine or engineering before settling down to rear her children. That last unquestioned aspiration was shattered when she quietly informed them, her head bowed, of her love for women or, at that time, one woman from whom now, after all those years of companionship, for more than a month, she was separated. She had not yet told them of this change. Nor were they likely to discover it for themselves, having not once visited the apartment they once shared, refusing always outright to name her, an Anglo, a social worker, never calling but then complaining bitterly when she didn’t. And not to tell them was a small act of defiance, a child’s stratagem to ward the evil off. If the words never passed her lips, it would seep gradually away and eventually end. It would become a nightmare, no more, from which, however terrifying, she would presently awake to find, yes, the familiar comfort of her lover, warm and smooth as fresh cream, the slender arms around her, the slightly tainted breath of early morning in her ear, Hush now, it’s going to be all right. And yet she already knew that in all those ways that really mattered, no matter what she said or did or failed to say or do, prolonged silence or murmured incantation, it would never be all right again. That thought of facing the future alone tightened around her chest, flattening her small breasts, making it difficult to breathe. But breath was wasted on her. She wanted not to breathe. She wanted not to be if what she faced was what she saw before her now: an endless reach of white sand. And yet somehow she moved. She placed one foot before the other and then repeated it. Perhaps it was that which those first recruiters had discerned in her, looking past the diminutive figure, the dark eyes as silent as onyx, the severe pageboy cut. When you looked closely, you saw that a kind of toughness, a determination not to be undone, a compulsion to succeed at any cost defined her. She did not back down from a challenge tho her methods might be indirect. And she was smart. She learned the ancient compensations for her weakness, using her opponent’s strengths against him. She didn’t boast. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t seek attention. And more easily than most, because of others’ propensity to overlook her, she could make herself disappear.

That was true now. For some minutes, she had stood aside, listening to the captain’s instructions, person to person or via the handheld radio, which crackled intermittently with incoherent messages he seemed nonetheless to understand. She had never mastered the firefighter’s code: the meaning of those odd clipped phrases, the sequence of numbers: ten-eighty in progress. But none seemed to notice her. They hurried to carry out their appointed tasks. Despite the heavy rainfall, columns of water rose and fell in arcs from stiff hoses to become absorbed in the inferno. It was mesmerizing in its movements. The flames leapt and subsided, expanded and contracted, danced brazenly then fled as if caught, embarrassed, clutching a discarded garment to its genitals, cowering on a ledge, then leapt again aside as if unable to contain its own exuberance. The colors shifted, merged, replaced each other, scrambling for attention: orange, red, white, blue, black. The roar added to the sense of chaos. Tiny tendrils of acrid smoke crept into her nostrils. Shapes in silhouette, like priests in hell, buckled into their protective cowls, quickly followed patterns she could not interpret. She watched in silence the heat, the color bathing her face, momentarily lost in wonder, then moved forward, exposing herself.

Turning, the officer in charge caught sight of her, winked, smiled. Evening, Detective, he said. You must have drawn the short straw this enchanted evening.

We were in the neighborhood, she replied with just a hint of sarcasm.

Not the one I would have chosen, the captain opined, cocking his head, pretending to look around.

I don’t make the call, she said. I just do what I’m told. Then turning slightly, she gestured to the bulky man behind herself and said: Do you know my partner, Hank Peters?

Despite his size, he also had the ability to disappear when he needed to and moved always with surprising grace and refinement as if continually in dance, a slow fox-trot to music he alone heard. He wore his familiar long gray coat, once gray, once wool, and a battered autumnal fedora, green or brown or both, a throwback to a simpler, still cynical time. He slipped to her side, bowed slightly, grasped the extended hand. Captain, he murmured.

Bob Wilkins, the fire captain said as they shook.

She turned again, felt the contrast of cold streaming rain, the heat of the flames adhering to her face like a mask, felt the magnitude of those elements, fire and water, her fragility in comparison to them, their timelessness, their endless recurrence.

Not much I can tell you now, he was saying. Not much till we get her under control, get inside, begin to look around. Hours yet, I expect.

Care to speculate? Hank Peters asked, ignoring the conflagration, staring at the captain’s face turned aside.

Don’t need to, the captain said, tilting his head, raising his eyebrows, his face a polished bronze in the eerie light.

How so?

You’re all the proof I need. They don’t send people of your stripe to watch a house fire. Something else afoot. But then you could guess that at first look.

How so?

His expression hardened, became more settled, more professional; his tone lowered tho not to hide anything, to take them into his confidence, but more in reverence. It’s not your natural pattern, he said. Most fires don’t behave like that. They have a different beat, a different rhythm.

So it was set? Anna asked.

Not arson, no, if that’s what you mean.

But someone started it, she persisted.

I’d say so, yes. Someone started it. What I don’t know is whether that’s what he intended. But once we get in, start sorting through the rubble, sooner or later we’ll find what we’re looking for.

That’s dangerous, isn’t it? Knowing what you’re looking for? Sooner or later, you start seeing it in anything, a can of tuna fish, the features of a Barbie doll.

You’re probably right, the captain laughed. Better keep an open mind. Still, it looks a lot like a bomb to me. The symmetry, the projection, the ring it threw out. He paused to gesture in an abbreviated arc. A bomb, moreover, that went awry.

She turned to follow the movement, took in again the small forlorn houses, now laminated with the intense orange glow, clinging grimly to the hillside, the glistening street, the distant city, its glittering lights blurred and smeared. She felt like weeping. A violent shudder suddenly took hold of her, beginning deep within, rushing to the surface.

You OK? her partner asked.

Cold, she said. That’s all. I don’t suppose there’s a Starbucks nearby, is there?

Look around, he responded, doing so himself: I don’t think it’s Starbucks country.

Figured that myself, the captain said, agreeing, softening. Why I brought a thermos. You’ll find it in the truck if you need it.

I’ll wait, thanks, she replied. It will pass. She shivered again and drew the raincoat closer in. But how awry? And why?

He looked at her askance, eyebrows raised again bemused, said after a moment’s reflection, I hate to use the t word, but that would be my guess.

My God, I hope you’re wrong, she murmured, musing, staring at the fire. We got plenty on our plate already. And all the country needs is another Timothy McVeigh to haunt its dreams.

I get your point. And in any case we got hours yet before we get inside and look around. Still, you have to wonder what’s the benefit in blowing up a ghetto sliding down a hillside? Place is down and out as it is. Not even the insurance to collect. No, my guess is whoever’s making bombs just used this as the factory: made in America, as it were, stamped right on it. American as apple pie, they used to say. Make it here, do the damage somewhere else. Then things got out of hand.

Well, let’s hope that ends it, she murmured.

We can always hope, he agreed with a note of skepticism.

But you’re not convinced, she noted it, looking at him quickly.

Well, things aren’t getting any better, the way I see it.

I get your point, Anna said.

It keeps you humble, things like this, the captain said. You have to know what you can do and what you can’t. Like a fire. Sometimes all you can do is make sure it doesn’t spread. Sometimes you just have to let it have its way with what it’s taken. Nothing you can do about it till it’s had its fill.

It keeps you humble, she